


An Utterly Rubbish Dragon

by darthjamtart



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Gen, Ye Olde Historical Time Period, dragon!Grantaire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-29
Updated: 2014-03-29
Packaged: 2018-01-17 11:28:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1385974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darthjamtart/pseuds/darthjamtart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“A dragon!” Enjolras echoed softly to himself. This could be the answer to all their problems! At last, the mighty foe of their feudal overlords! The fire-breathing answer to oppressive knights who rode about the land ravishing semi-virtuous maidens!</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Utterly Rubbish Dragon

**Author's Note:**

> AU based on The Reluctant Dragon, by Kenneth Grahame.

Enjolras hadn't met very many dragons, but he was pretty sure Grantaire was an unimpressive specimen.

It all started when Marius came running into the Musain, yelled something incomprehensible, and chugged the remains of Bahorel’s beer. There was enough of it left that Bahorel looked marginally affronted.

“What was that about Cosette?” Courfeyrac asked, apparently taking an educated guess at what Marius was trying to communicate.

“She’s in grave danger!” Marius wailed, sagging back into a chair and flinging an arm over his eyes. “My beloved could be devoured at any moment!”

Given how prone Marius generally was to melodrama, no one seemed particularly concerned.

“Can I get another beer?” Bahorel called down the bar to Eponine, their bartender. She poured a couple pints and brought the second over to Marius.

“I’m sure Cosette will be fine,” Eponine said.

“How can you say that?” Marius demanded, lowering the arm from over his eyes. “Cosette is a lush, virtuous treasure! Any dragon would be thrilled to devour her!”

“Lush?” Bossuet said dubiously, clearly mentally comparing Cosette with the ample curves of his and Joly’s mistress, Musichetta.

“Virtuous?” Eponine said, raising an eyebrow, then hastily retreating behind the bar at Marius’s scowl.

“Whatever adolescent shenanigans you and Cosette may have enjoyed together don’t count,” Marius sniffed.

“Dragon?” Enjolras said, then, when no one appeared to be listening, repeated, louder, “ _Dragon?_ ”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you about!” Marius said peevishly, then downed his pint of beer and collapsed in a tipsy heap next to Bahorel.

“A dragon!” Enjolras echoed softly to himself. This could be the answer to all their problems! At last, the mighty foe of their feudal overlords! The fire-breathing answer to oppressive knights who rode about the land ravishing semi-virtuous maidens!

Feuilly flapped an arm at him dismissively. “Yeah, but who’s going to convince the dragon to fight on behalf of the people, and not just eat our sheep?”

And that was how Enjolras found himself striding alone up the hillside to meet the dragon.

***

There were no trails of burnt grass or flaming trees or half-eaten sheep to guide his way, so Enjolras meandered somewhat aimlessly for a bit. “Dragon!” he called as he walked, despite being unsure of the proper form of address to use when approaching a dragon.

Eventually, he caught sight of a pale green tail with blue ridges curled around a boulder. He followed the widening tail to where it joined what was unmistakably the body of a seemingly sleeping dragon. Black horns curved in a wicked arc over the creature’s face, breaking up the wisps of smoke that puffed at steady intervals from its nostrils, and in the surprisingly delicate grip of one of its claws it held an incongruous paintbrush.

“Excuse me,” Enjolras said, then, louder, “I beg your pardon!”

The dragon made a hissing sound, rather like an affronted cat, shoulderblades jutting up higher under the folded crest of its wings. “Not so loud,” the dragon grumbled. “I have a terrible hangover.” One shimmering blue eye cracked open, bleary gaze flitting across the landscape before coming to rest on Enjolras. “Well, aren’t _you_ a lovely sight this dreadful morning.”

“I -- what?” Enjolras said.

“You know, I knew an emperor once whose favorite catamite was almost as stunning as you,” the dragon said in a conversational sort of way.

Enjolras drew himself up, spine stiffening. “I have a matter of great importance to discuss with you, dragon,” he said.

“Grantaire,” the dragon said.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras said.

“My name. Grantaire. And what’s yours, gorgeous?”

“My name is Enjolras,” Enjolras said, “and I am here to speak with you on behalf of the people!”

The dragon, Grantaire, hummed noncommittally. “What people?” he asked.

“All of them!” Enjolras declared. “Well, all the oppressed people, that is. All who suffer under the tyrannical rule of your sworn enemy!”

“I have a sworn enemy?” Grantaire asked.

“The knights?” Enjolras stared at the dragon, who peered thoughtfully at a passing cloud before shaking his head. “Men who ride around clad in metal armor and hit dragons with swords and spears and any manner of sharp objects?”

“It’s not ringing a bell,” Grantaire admitted. “But then, I have been out of society for quite some time. Artists’ retreat, you know. Would you just look at this lovely new shade of crimson we developed?” The dragon gestured at a canvas set up a few paces away, which depicted a rather spectacular sunset showcasing the color in question.

When Enjolras looked up from the painting, the dragon was staring at him. “You must let me do a portrait,” Grantaire said abruptly. “Just after dawn, perhaps, with the morning light and your hair, yes, that would be wonderful!”

Enjolras scowled. “I am attempting to overthrow a regime, you know,” he said tartly. “I hardly have time to sit for a portrait.”

“Enjoy your revolution, then,” Grantaire said, and then he settled his head down on one scaly forearm and gave every appearance of falling right back asleep.

_What an utterly rubbish dragon,_ Enjolras thought to himself as he trudged back to the town. He’d just have to find some other way of getting rid of the knights.

***

A week later, Enjolras and his friends had made tragically little progress on their plans when Courfeyrac came running into the Musain and shouted, “Sir Javert is on his way!”

Bahorel, who hadn’t paid any taxes for at least three years as a way of protesting the system, ducked behind the bar. “Drat,” Eponine snapped, and tossed a towel over Bahorel’s head before leaving the Musain at a dead run in search of her brother. Left to his own devices, Gavroche was inclined to throw mud at any passing knights, more than one of whom had taken violent exception to such actions in the past.

Enjolras slammed a fist down on the table. “Let’s run him out of town! Down with the oppressors! Death to the knights!”

“We can’t fight him,” Combeferre pointed out. “No one in town has a sword. Or a horse. Or armor.”

“That’s not true, Cosette’s father has a horse!” Marius said.

“A plowhorse. And it’s old,” Bossuet replied. “Mostly it just naps in the field all day and Valjean pushes the plow himself.”

“Valjean is unusually strong,” Feuilly said. “Maybe he’ll agree to fight Javert.”

“He’s a pacifist,” Enjolras said gloomily, having attempted this line of thought with Valjean several times in the past.

“A barricade, then,” Courfeyrac suggested, eyes gleaming. “We’ll trap the knight here in town.”

“An excellent plan!” Bahorel shouted from behind the bar. “A barricade for Javert!”

They emptied the Musain of tables and chairs, piling them together with a stray wheelbarrow to block the main avenue. This left them with a rather large expanse of unimpeded dirt road, with several escape routes. Enjolras sent Joly and Feuilly to fetch more furniture, and set about shoring up the existing barricade with large sacks of flour.

It was a rather haphazard setup, but by the time Sir Javert clopped up on a finely-appointed horse, armor gleaming in the late afternoon sunlight, they had something resembling an enclosure. Combeferre and Bossuet hastily piled the last few bedframes and tables into the street behind Sir Javert, who didn’t appear to notice anything was amiss until his horse balked at a chair leg.

“I beg your pardon,” Javert called over a table, “But you are impeding the progress of a knight of the realm. Would you mind removing this...furniture?”

“Death to all tyrants!” Enjolras shouted back.

“That’s our barricade!” Combeferre yelled from the other side of the enclosure. “And you, Sir Javert, are our prisoner!”

There was a ragged cheer from all around the town. Inside the barricade, Javert dismounted and paced around the enclosure until he encountered a chair that wasn’t very well attached to anything else. He pulled it loose, and sat down.

“You’ll all be arrested later, of course,” Javert shouted. “But I’m a bit tired from my travels at the moment. I don’t suppose you’d consider bringing me a sandwich?”

Cosette nudged Enjolras sharply in the ribs when he remained silent, then conferred with her father. A few minutes later, Valjean passed a plate with some cheese and a small loaf of bread across the barricade to Javert, who accepted it with a sniff.

“You’ve no right to withhold anything, of course,” Javert commented, although not until after he’d finished his meal.

“It’s like he _wants_ to stay in there until he rots,” Courfeyrac said to Feuilly, who nodded in agreement.

“We can’t keep him here forever,” Combeferre pointed out. “We’re blocking the entrances to half the houses in town.”

“Sleeping on the ground is a small price to pay in the war against our oppressors,” Enjolras declared, then took a hasty step back when Eponine glared at him.

“That’s easy for you to say,” Eponine snapped. “ _Your_ front door is still accessible!”

Enjolras considered this. “Very well,” he said, after a moment. “Everyone who’s been temporarily put out by the revolution can stay at my house.”

“And where will you be?” Bossuet asked.

“We still need someone to rid us of Javert, don’t we?” Enjolras asked. “I’m going to get us some help.”

***

He found the painting before he found the dragon. Gilded curls seemed to flutter off the stretched canvas, and the newly-developed crimson Grantaire had been so proud of dominated the portrait in broad, graceful strokes, delineating an upraised arm, lending a vivid flush to Enjolras’s painted cheek.

It was a remarkably good likeness, considering the brevity of their acquaintance.

“Do you like it?” Grantaire asked, settling on the ground beside Enjolras. The draft caused by the dragon’s wings nearly caused Enjolras to sink to his knees.

“It’s very…” Enjolras trailed off. No one had ever painted his portrait before (at least, not to his knowledge), and the truth was, he _did_ like it.

Grantaire slumped down, wings hunching to brush the tops of his ears. “You don’t have to be tactful,” he muttered. “I know, I’m not very good. It’s the brushes, you know. They’re really not meant for claws.” 

“No, it’s...it’s quite magnificent,” Enjolras managed at last. “Really.”

“You’re not just saying that?” Grantaire asked.

“Certainly not!” Enjolras said, indignant. “Although, I’m afraid I did come to ask you for a favor.”

“Oh,” Grantaire said, still sounding a bit subdued. He sighed, then produced a cask of wine from underneath a pile of art supplies. “Shall we discuss whatever it is over a drink, then?”

Enjolras wasn’t much for drinking, but it seemed impolitic to refuse at this juncture.

“Now then,” Grantaire said, once they’d finished the cask of wine (Enjolras having partaken of a mere few sips). “What was this favor you wanted?”

“We’ve arrived at a sort of...impasse, with a local knight,” Enjolras said. “Would you mind terribly helping us get rid of him?”

“What’s the point?” Grantaire asked. “There will just be another one. Pesky things, knights. Always rattling around in their funny metal suits. You could chip a tooth.”

“I thought you weren’t familiar with knights,” Enjolras said.

“I hear things,” Grantaire hedged. Enjolras stared at the dragon’s wine-stained maw and tried to figure out if any of his teeth showed signs of chipping.

“Anyway,” Enjolras said, “even if other knights _do_ show up, they’ll know we mean business! They’ll have to take our revolution seriously if--”

“If you have a dragon on your side?” Grantaire interrupted. “I feel so used!” He didn’t sound particularly bothered, though. Rather, he turned a speculative eye on Enjolras. “A bargain,” Grantaire said. “I’ll help you with your knight problem, if you sit for a portrait.”

Enjolras opened his mouth to accept the terms, when Grantaire added, “Naked.”

Well. It’s not like anyone would ever _see_ it. As far as Enjolras was aware, there were no galleries showing art by dragons. “Agreed,” he said, and shook one of Grantaire’s claws to seal the deal.

Grantaire might not have been the most intimidating dragon, but Enjolras had to admit he looked quite fine flying into the village at dusk, roaring flames the exact color of the sunset behind him. “Is that him?” Grantaire called, circling over the barricade. “I’d rather eat the horse.”

The horse, surprisingly unperturbed by its possible imminent demise, huffed quietly and continued to chew the sparse grass inside the enclosure.

“You don’t have to eat him,” Enjolras shouted back. “Just get rid of him! Permanently.”

“Is this really necessary?” Valjean protested. “Javert is just doing his job.”

“Yes,which is _oppressing us_ ,” Enjolras said. Honestly, it was like some people didn’t even _want_ to be liberated from utmost tyranny.

“He could surrender to us,” Valjean suggested. “Now that we have a dragon, and all.”

“I most certainly will not!” Javert snapped. There followed a muffled conversation between him and Valjean that the entire village politely pretended not to overhear. “Oh, very well,” Javert said at last. “I surrender and agree to live the rest of my days in Valjean’s custody.”

He didn’t sound particularly unhappy about it, Enjolras couldn’t help but notice.

“Well, if that’s settled,” Grantaire said, and flew back toward the hills. “I’ll be expecting you for that portrait tomorrow!” he called behind him.

It was, in the end, a lovely portrait. And much to Enjolras’s dismay, there were in fact museums willing to display the artwork of dragons.


End file.
